Timeline: Before the Soul Society arc; around chapter 50 (volume 6). Vague spoilers up until that point.
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Ichigo came awake to the knowledge that there was someone in the room. Rising up on one elbow, he glanced about, blinking back a clinging dream. Outside, the orange orb of the street lamp blurred and streamed in the rain that thrummed on the window. The open door of the cupboard cut a patch of darkness among the dim shapes of familiar objects within the room.
That, and someone other than him was breathing rather noisily. It sounded like they were holding back sobs.
"Hey," he said into the dark - stupidly, but lacking a more eloquent opening.
The bunched bedspread, hanging off the foot of his bed, shifted upwards. The fabric draped Rukia's head like a hood as she peered out from underneath it; her eyes glimmered in the liquid light of the street lamp, perhaps a bit too bright.
Between puzzlement and annoyance, the choice was a no-brainer.
"Why the hell are you hiding there?"
"I couldn't sleep." Her timbre offered the unmistakeable opinion that he was indeed stupid.
"Lucky you. With all this midnight hollow-chasing, I don't have time to be insomniac. So keep it down." Ichigo made a show of tugging his blanket over his head.
"I was quiet," she said, with a hint of petulance - always a danger sign.
Not surprisingly, his mouth ran away from his desire to sleep. "I could hear you breathing." He made a grab for his pillow, for a shield against the imminent physical abuse.
She stepped over, yanked the pillow from his hands and walloped him with it. He threw out a blocking elbow; instead of another faceful of pillow, he got Rukia folding to sit beside his bed with a smothered sigh.
"It's the rain," she whispered. "It's loud; like it's speaking to me. But I can't make out the words."
In the interest of self-defence, Ichigo reclaimed his pillow, but his annoyance had already made a sharp left and sped off into unwilling concern.
"You sure you're not talking in your sleep? Because that sure is weird."
She glanced daggers up at him - never mind it was so dark that her eyes were just inky patches on her pale face. "Why don't you just shut up and go to sleep?"
He huffed. "Why don't you stop bothering me so I can?"
"You're the one bombarding me with stupid questions, you dimwit!" She shot up on her feet, her hands again fisting in the pillow with obviously murderous intent.
Ichigo clamped his hand down on it, fixing her with a glower. "Don't even think about it."
The staredown was cut short as Rukia slumped. Her head bumped sadly into his bedstead. "Just... shut up."
He looked down at the back of her head. And at her still clenched hands. And at her shoulders, trembling softly but distinctly under the worn flannel of his sister's pyjama top.
Kicking the blanket aside, Ichigo sat up on the edge of the bed. "Okay. Come on, you."
"What?" Her voice seemed to waver with more than surprise.
"You heard me." It was three strides to the door; without a look backward, he turned the doorknob and peeked into the impermeable gloom of the corridor.
Cloth rustled as she rose; her footsteps shuffled slowly over the floor. "What on earth are you -"
Ichigo hushed her with an impatient gesture. "They're asleep, you know?" Before she could retort, he stole towards the stairs, skipping the creaky floorboards with a surety that naturally evolves in every child forced to observe such ridiculous curfews as 7 p.m. Even having to leap, she exactly mimicked his footfalls. Still, he could sense her indignation gnawing its way through the restraint of the common sense fact that waking up his family would be A Very Awkward Thing.
They padded down the stairs. Ushering her into the kitchen, Ichigo shut the door and switched on the lamp. Rukia did not so much as blink at the flood of mellow light before cutting loose. "Explain. Three seconds."
Her mussed hair and drawn brows gave her a look reminiscent of a miniature, scowling thunderhead, and the stillness filling the kitchen definitely was one preceding a cloudburst.
Ichigo sighed. Why was it that she always had to complicate his every try to - to be nice? Pointedly, he turned and snapped at the contents of a cupboard instead. "Just - sit your butt down and be quiet for a minute! I'm trying to help here!"
The gasp she almost, but not quite, reined in was a small triumph. The chair scraped sharply against the floor as Rukia drew it; he winced, setting the kettle in his hand down with exaggerated care, not daring to breathe for a moment.
The silence unwound little by little. Letting his shoulders fall, Ichigo resumed the familiar motions. He had watched this task, and in more recent years done it himself so many times on wakeful nights that, ironically, he could have gone through it flawlessly in his sleep.
The rain seemed louder down here, rattling fragile notes of silver water on the window. Rukia was still in the way only she knew, a breathless, soundless wait more fitting for a stalking cat than for an elfin girl, sitting hunched, doodling something on the table with her finger. Ichigo had learned to see past the discrepancy: a huntress crouched inside, stealthy and graceful, and the schoolgirl shell Rukia wore could not conceal her.
He dipped the steaming water into the pot and breathed in the fragrance of the catmint as the tea leaves stirred, his mouth quirking into a wry half-smile. 'I'm out of my fucking mind. She's hoppin' mad by now.'
The theory suffered a crack when she finally spoke. Her voice was small and reedy; he was grateful to busy himself with finding the mug so she had no chance to see the bewilderment that flushed his face. "Ichigo? Really. What are you doing?" She swallowed. "Don't bark back at me - I just -"
He set the mug down in front of her. It had chipped at the rim, from when he had tumbled it carelessly into the sink years before. "You couldn't sleep. I'm making you tea." He could only hope his gruff tone salvaged some shred of his dignity. Her abnormal behaviour must be affecting his clarity of mind. There was no other explanation.
Rukia curled her fingers around the mug. The steam from the honeyed tea spun fleeting vapour-sculptures in the air. "It's black," she said, with a note of wonder.
Ichigo bit back a rejoinder featuring stating the obvious. "It's supposed to be, you dummy. It's two-minute tea, it's not strong."
"Catmint," she went on, her nose skimming the brim of the mug. "For restlessness, nervousness and insanity."
"It oughtta be good for you, then."
"Ichigo? I'm plenty sure I can throw this mug across your kitchen with striking accuracy."
He let his silence speak for itself, consoling himself that it perhaps conveyed undertones of subtle menace rather than loss for a clever comeback.
That was not likely, though. Oh well. Just this once.
Rukia swirled the spoon in the mug, the tinkle of it on the china making hushed music of its own against the steady backdrop of the rain. Ichigo leaned his palms on the counter and remembered other nights. The house dreamed around them, brimming with soft, bleary darkness only the shaded lamp held gently at bay.
"You're not busy any more," she observed, nicking at the precarious harmony. "Therefore, you're out of excuses. You freak the moment I so much as land a toe outside your room. What the hell is this for?" She indicated the kitchen, then herself.
"If anyone comes, you'd better be under the table quicker than you can yell 'Hollow!" he answered, with attempted breeziness. "That means pretty damn quick."
Rukia huffed at him in eminent dissatisfaction. "And the tea?" She sipped at it.
If he ever was held accountable for this charade, he was going to plead acute sleep deprivation. Or maybe temporary hollow-induced madness. Nothing else was going to cut it, at this point.
Studiously, Ichigo cocked his head, looked up at the ceiling, and wished his voice did not catch. "When I had really bad nightmares, Mom would carry me downstairs, give me that mug, and make tea."
He drew a deep breath; Rukia echoed his pause, her eyes fast on him. She cradled the mug with both hands. Her feet, not quite reaching the floor, hooked around the legs of the chair.
"I only got used to actually drinking the tea after she died." Scratching his hair, he wished even more that he could decipher the face she wore, unflinching, prompting him to go on. "It's... this is... my way of comforting myself, I guess," he blurted out, even as self-consciousness kicked in, full force. "Shit, that sounds stupid."
She just watched him, and he had to look away. The chair chafed against the floor. She crossed the floor and, limberly, hoisted herself onto the counter on his left. Out of the very corner of his eye, he saw the mug perched adroitly in her hand.
"Thank you for letting me share your stupid tradition, then." Rukia gave him a flicker of a winning smile as he gaped at her. After a moment, he had to hide a reluctant grin into his hand.
"Okay, you win this time," he said under his breath. He had to doubt his own words as her gaze lit with a tiny, ridiculously warm smile. It sure felt like claiming a prize, even though he was not so sure what his accomplishment precisely was.
Whatever had kept her awake, he might hope it had withdrawn for now.
"What'd the rain tell you?" Too late, Ichigo realised the words had spouted aloud from his mouth.
Of course, Rukia heard him - partially. She kept poking him in the arm when he tried to squirm away, and somehow he did not have the heart to squirm very much at all.
"You sounded kinda sad to me, back there," he admitted at length. "Why?"
She gulped down the rest of the tea, her throat working with probably excessive vigour. "Rain tends to make me... unquiet. I never sleep well during downpours." She handed him the mug, her slight fingers brushing his before she pulled her legs up to her chest, curling into the corner of the counter. Setting the mug into the sink - carefully - Ichigo nodded.
"But when I'm over here, it's for different reasons. Even though most people can't hear or see us, shinigami are tangible. So, rain falls over us, not through." Her dark hair slanted forward, fluttering as she exhaled out of the corner of her mouth. "There actually is a moment, just when it starts raining, when you can see our outline with the naked eye.
"For whatever stupid reason, I like that moment, now. It... makes me feel more like a part of this world." Rukia breathed out the last words; her head dipped to rest against her knees.
"Now?" Ichigo offered, echoing the emphasis she had given the word. Funny, how strange it was to be reminded that things had not always been this way, that there had not always been an irritable, sagacious huntress of souls staying in his cupboard. He had almost grown used to her there, sharing his space.
"I once thought it feels like making a little hole in the rain," she said. "If someone is close enough, they can see the raindrops sliding over me, and know there's an empty spot there."
Even if she now seemed to roam, Rukia always had a purpose, a clear destination. She would get there. Ichigo waited, brows knitting - for a reason other than giving the world the finger by refusing to conform. His irritation had long since receded in the way of curiosity; curiosity that now was becoming laden with worry. "Never thought of that," he said, inanely.
Her toes curled and uncurled, slowly. "It's different when I'm in this body. The water soaks my hair, chills the back of my neck, clings to my lashes... tries to get in." Rukia raised a splayed hand and peered at the lamp through her fingers. "When you're a spirit, it just kind of rolls away. You're no more aware of it than of - of a breeze of wind."
It occurred to Ichigo that maybe, this time, Rukia had missed a turn. "So... where's this leading? If the rain doesn't bother you, then..."
Her cheek dimpled as she looked up, then smoothed again, hesitantly. The sadness in her eyes caught him by surprise; the tremour in her voice made him swallow hard. "I don't want to make a hole in the rain, Ichigo. It's like breaking something that should hold fast."
This time he turned away overwhelmed, his fingers trying to bury themselves in the steel of the counter.
"You won't. Want to go out and try it? You'll get soaked." His voice was raspy in his ears.
"I know!" Rukia snapped, her hair whisking as she banged a fist against a cupboard. "I know, I know, I know, and I don't want it, because it hurts either way - feeling the rain or not - being here or not -"
Ichigo told himself it was to stop her making noise before his family woke. He spun and grabbed her fist as she raised it again. She was jerked into momentary, wide-eyed confusion. He held on to her hand, resting his wrist on her bent knee, stroking her tightly knotted fingers with his thumb. It was somehow very simple and easy.
"You don't know whether to be homesick or have fun on the trip, huh?"
"That's an asinine metaphor if I ever heard one," she murmured, choked.
Ichigo sternly told his nerves to stretch. "Shit, Rukia - I'm not exactly Shakespeare this time of night."
"I guess I can't complain, since I'm the one keeping you awake." Her reply was almost meek. "Yes. Something like that. But, it hasn't been bad, you know. Living in your cupboard." She peered at him like a child playing hide-and-seek round the kitchen table, with a swift nod of her head.
With a deep exhalation, he tried catching her eye again. "You're lucky it's summer. Keeping the window open could be a problem when it gets colder."
In his grasp, her fingers uncoiled and threaded through his. She gave him a brittle smile. "We'll put our heads together, then." Her voice took on a warning note. "I'm not falling down because you shut the window."
Ichigo scowled at her, but the intended grumble welled from his throat as a soft chortle. "You better not be out until all hours, then. I'm not getting cold feet because you're late."
Just briefly, Rukia squeezed his fingers, sending a flush of warmth throughout him. "Deal."
"You think the voices are good and gone now?" Ichigo asked, not quite trusting his own voice at the moment.
There was a pause as she stifled a yawn, huddling deeper into the corner. "They're going to drone me to sleep any minute."
"Good." He reached out and picked her up, unceremoniously. She weighed no more than Yuzu, whom he would sometimes, on late family evenings, carry upstairs from the living room, but certainly put up a hell of a lot more hassle.
"Hey! What -" Rukia twisted in his arms; tugging an arm free, she angled for his jaw.
"You should know not to start with that word," he murmured, with a tactical tilting of his face to the safer side. "You're finally tired, so I'm tucking you in."
"What? You - have you any idea -" Another yawn stole some of her credibility in mid-word, and Ichigo took the opportunity to spring over a treacherous stair that always managed to grate underfoot.
"I do," he said, "More than I care to share." That seemed to unruffle her; she let her head fall into the nook of his shoulder. He was quietly thankful, for manouevring past his father's bedroom door in utter blackness, his arms occupied, was challenge enough without the occupant struggling to hit him.
With a minute breath of relief, he nudged the his own door shut with his foot. The rain-filtered twilight in the room wrapped around them like a blanket, snuggly and safe. Her fingers slid easily down his arm as he, with some awkwardness, set her down in the nest of sheets and pillows she had dug for herself.
Just before he could draw away, Rukia grasped his wrist, insistent, still undeniably tender. He could hardly see her, but the glimmer of her eyes was bright despite the sleepy slur in her voice. "Good night. Sleep tight."
Unseen, Ichigo smiled. "You want me to leave the door open?"
She crawled into the blankets. "Just a crack. So I can hear the rain."
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Heartfelt thanks go out to The Firefly, who patiently answered my n00b questions, offered encouragement, and was a true beta reader in need - as was Purple Pen, whose astute comments added an unmistakeable burnish to the story.
Note: For anyone who caught - or did not - the Jonathan Carroll reference, the phrase "holes in the rain" is from his book The Wooden Sea.